


A Place You Don't Belong

by hbxplain



Series: More Lives Than One [1]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), More Lives Than One, Original Works
Genre: Against Genasi, Fantasy Racism, Furia's Backstory, Gen, Written By Storm, outsider's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-28 22:14:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20433305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hbxplain/pseuds/hbxplain
Summary: A trader is warned of two children who MIGHT be demons.





	A Place You Don't Belong

**Author's Note:**

> Another reminder: this is for our DnD campaign MLTO, and the full campaign can be found on the wattpad account "stormcause"!

The forest is clearly an ancient one, the elven trader thinks. If it isn’t obvious from the huge diameter of the trees - which are a mix of oaks, noble firs, redwoods and gums - then it is the height of the trees and the thick undergrowth that tells you. There is no clear path among the tangle of low bushes, massive trunks, thick tendrils and tall grass; in fact, there is no path at all. The place looks as if it hadn’t been touched by mortals or gods in hundreds of years.

The trader is jerked from his musing by the sudden sound of wood striking on wood and a great cracking which sends the birds flying from their perches high above. The trader turns with a sigh, noting that one of the few wagons he has brought on this trip has gotten caught yet again on a tree root, the wheel splitting. Several of his helpers rush forward to heave the wagon over the root, preparing to replace the wheel for the fifth time while another calms the horse pulling it.

The elven trader is a wealthy one who goes by the name of Laucian Brook. Over the many years since he had started his trade, he had gathered dozens of traders around him, growing into one of the biggest roving caravan traders this side of the Hills of Eronell. Their wagons travelled from all over, selling objects of all sorts, from the mundane, such as tools, books and weapons, to the extraordinary, including precious stones, foreign silks, unique foods and strange carvings.

But it is here, far from all civilisation, weeks of travel away from the city of Phandalin, almost as far west as you could go without having to forge your way through the steep and treacherous mountain passes that are filled all year round with snow, that Laucian made his best trades. Even so, the tangle of the forest, the uneven ground that made it almost impossible for wagons to pass through, and the isolated location meant that he could only afford to go here once every few years. And every time, he half-wondered why he even bothered.

The trek to the heart of the forest takes a single person walking on foot almost five days to complete, and so close to two weeks had passed before Laucian spots the first signs of the elven houses, nestled in a shallow basin where the ground levels out before rising sharply into the mountains. The houses are built in the traditional elvish way, with neat lanes weaving around them and a small square where a market can be set up. Laucian gives a sigh of relief as he sees the ground level out, although the relief is hampered by the knowledge that the way back down in several days isn’t going to be any easier than the way up.

The three wagons and small entourage of workers move slowly into the village, with Laucian leading them in. The village folk stop their tasks to watch as the group as they pass, their expressions wary. Laucian gives them a few smiles and nods, some of which are returned. Almost nothing has changed since he had last visited close to three years ago, and he sets up his wagons in the market square in almost the exact same array as he has every time before.

“Watch those horses there!” he shouts to one of the helpers in Elvish. “Picket them down the road.”

“Yes sir!” the elven man says back, moving the few horses where his boss had pointed.

The wagons start being unloaded, the sides folded down as table tops or falling to hang down as the edges of tables, simple tablecloths being thrown over the rough wood and the wares being carefully placed on top. The sun has just reached its height, and Laucian knows that the rest of today will be spent by the locals examining the wares and scouting them out before trading over the next few days. The older people are the first ones to approach, remembering the trading group having visited before and asking questions about the wares. Laucian had been very careful to bring only elvish traders on this trip. He had never heard the village people speak Common (though he would be very surprised if they did not know it), nor any other language. He does know that apart from himself and one other trader, an elderly half-elf lady who comes occasionally in the heat of summer, the village has no outside visitors and so no reason nor desire to learn other languages or meet other races.

As the sun sets, the traders pack up their wagons, folding them where they are and spending the night in a fourth wagon picketed on the edges of the village. As Laucian had speculated, the trades start the next morning; fine wool ready for spinning in exchange for three necklaces strung with precious stones only found in that region; tanned leather for intricate wooden carvings; two cans of oil for a perfectly crafted longbow and so forth. And during the deal that are struck, conversations are had. Gossip is, after all, one of the most important things a trader can have and even out here in the middle of nowhere, Laucian makes note of everything he hears, just in case.

The children, as all children do when something out of the mundane occurs, are ecstatic at the arrival of the wagons and horses and they dart from place to place, popping up here and there and excitedly pulling on the arms of their parents before running off down the street, instantly beginning one of their many games.

“Turyan, be careful!” one mother calls out as a partially boisterous boy runs off. “And stay away from those children!”

“Ah, the joys of being young,” Laucian says with a grin, taking out a glass jar for the woman to examine.

She smiles back at him, slightly reserved. “Yes, but I would feel much better about him going and playing if those kids weren’t out and about, as per usual.”

“Troublemakers?”

“Not yet,” the woman says darkly, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if they end up that way.”

The woman doesn’t say much more on the topic but when he kept his ears open, Laucian learns more about these ‘children’ the village elves occasionally mutter about. The elven children are warned to stay away from them and the trader thought that he saw a figure or two darting down the street after dark, when the market square was empty and most people were in their homes.

“They’re not elves,” a young woman says when Laucian casually brings up the topic with her. “I don’t know what they are, but they’re not elves.”

“They’re demons, I tell you!” the old and wizened man beside her says.

“Don’t be absurd Father.” The young man who appears to be the husband of the lady gives his father a frown. “Demons don’t walk the world anymore. They haven’t for centuries.”

The old man grumbles and hobbles on his way, and Laucian holds his tongue about the demons. He does some more trades until he comes across another couple, older than the first, who seem willing to chat.

“There was only one of them at first,” the male says, examining a leather-bound book. “Kinda stayed separate from everyone else. Then, a few years ago, the other one showed up. Inseparable, those two are.”

“They’re the same age?” Laucian asks, offering another book for the lady to look at.

“No,” the man answers. “Can’t tell you how old the two are, but they’re children.”

“For now,” the woman replies. “But it won’t be long until they are older. That’s when the trouble will start. And they’re growing much faster than elvish children do, it will come sooner than we think.”

“Did they just appear out of the forest one day?”

“No.” The man gives Laucian a little frown. “Do you know Thravious? The hunter?” The trader nods. Thravious had visited him earlier that day, looking at some oil paintings. “The kids are his,” the man continues. Then he shrugs. “At least, he looks after them.”

“What’s different about these children?” Laucian asks.

The woman hands over a delicately carved musical box in exchange for the two books, giving the trader an almost sympathetic look. “Trust me, when you see them, you’ll know.”

It seemed that all the village people were of the same mind, either not speaking about the topic or giving Laucian looks and saying “You’ll recognise them if you see them”. He leaves the village a few days later with very little of his old wares left and carrying many of the unique items he needed to remain profitable. As he had known, the way back down to civilisation is in many ways more treacherous than the way up, and the horses struggle. Barely an hour into the journey, one of the horses stumbles and the wagon behind it tips, almost falling over and spilling the boxes of precious wares before the men rush forward and stabilise it. Laucian sighs, turning from his position at the front of the train to look back at the commotion.

A movement out of the corner of his eye grabs his attention and his hand drops to the rather ornate dagger at his side, his eyes locking onto the spot. All is still for a few seconds. Then a head pops up from behind a large fallen tree, just far away enough so that he can’t tell the gender or race of the person. The figure watches them for a moment and then turns to say something, and a second later, a second head comes into view. The two seem to talk excitedly to each other for a moment before rising and sprinting away, back towards the elven village already hidden in the forest behind.

Laucian drops his hand from the dagger. The two figures were obviously children from their size and energy, no danger at all. He turns to make sure the wagon behind has been steadied and is ready to continue, although he glances back at the fallen tree. He almost could have sworn that their skin was blue, but he dismisses the thought as a trick of the light.

“Careful with the horses down here,” he calls. “It gets steep. Let’s move around to the right and then follow the valley down.”


End file.
